


SAM AND DEAN GO TO WAL-MART

by Wolfiekins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Content, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Male Slash, Marking, Minor Angst, Oral Sex, Season/Series 03, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester brothers' reality of life on the road sometimes forces them to resort to desperate measures, especially when Dean runs out of underwear between hunts.  Rambling, dialogue-heavy Season 3 established Wincest set after "Jus In Bello" and prior to "Ghostfacers".</p>
            </blockquote>





	SAM AND DEAN GO TO WAL-MART

**Author's Note:**

> Action takes place in season three, after JUS IN BELLO and before GHOSTFACERS. The original version, written many moons ago, was much shorter and never really felt complete, so for some reason I dusted this off and expanded a few of the "brother moments", added a proper MOTW, and included some wincesty goodness. Hopefully an improvement on the original. Major thanks to Kosh and Simone for their assistance and patience with this project!

**_~~~ SAM & DEAN GO TO WAL-MART ~~~_ **

 

 

_~ Monday, February 25, 2008 ~_

 

“Stipe's a wishy-washy, stuck-up shoe-gazer way too afraid to admit who he really is.” Dean fiddles with the tuner of the Audiovox just as the last bits of R.E.M.'s “The One I Love” fizzle away in a wave of static.

Sam looks up from his Treo, which has once again decided to lock up. “Man, not this again,” he sighs, stabbing at random buttons to no effect. He's not sure which is more annoying at the moment, his phone or his brother. “All I said was that Stipe seems to be a pretty decent guy. He's majorly talented, socially conscious, and pretty damn thoughtful. If you don't like him, fine, but why bash the guy so much? I don't get it.”

“It's pretty clear he's a total butt pirate,” Dean replies instantly. “He should just ante up and admit to it. Public, like.”

Sam takes a deep breath, equally amused and disappointed at Dean's fascination with Michael Stipe and his alleged sexual orientation. They seem to have a similar discussion whenever an R.E.M. tune plays, which isn't surprising considering the radio stations Sam prefers, not that he gets to choose the station all that often. Most likely its simply another instance of a profoundly bored Dean just messing with him, but what's really irksome, though, is that Rob Halford of Judas Priest never seems to be a topic that broaches Dean's radar.

Sam shoves the unresponsive Treo into his jacket pocket. “And why exactly is it so important that he ante up or come out or whatever it is you think he should do? So what if he's gay? Maybe he's bi, or pan-sexual or even asexual. None of that has any bearing at all on the band or their music, and whatever his orientation, it doesn't have a single thing to do with your own bad self.”

Dean rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to respond but Sam decides to cut him off.

“And really, man. _Butt pirate_? Sorta like calling the kettle black, ain’t it?”

Dean flips him the bird. “I'm not the one with the problem, Sammy. I'm also not some college radio god, like he is. That's why it matters; he's got an obligation to gaydom to stand up and tell it like it is."

"Oh really?” Sam shifts around to better face his brother. “That's total bullshit."

"I don't think so." Dean slides down in his seat, planting one hand at the very top of the Impala's steering wheel while gesturing vaguely with the other. "He's made one or two off-handed comments referring to his lifestyle, which doesn't come close to a true fessing up. He's a big deal, at least with the dorky college types, so if he'd just come clean, think of all the nerdy, dweeby folks that'd feel better about themselves."

"Nerdy? Dweeby? I like R.E.M and I'm not like that."

Dean purses his lips and nods. "Just keep telling yourself that, Sasquatch."

“Okay, whatever, but the real point here is that Michael Stipe's a person, with his own life, and he has every right to keep certain aspects—”

Dean blows a serious raspberry.

“—of his private life, well, private. He's not obligated to reveal intimate details about himself just because he and his band are mostly famous. Like I said, he may not even be gay."

"C'mon, it's pretty fuckin' obvious. A definite Friend of Dorothy."

Sam blinks a few times. “Wow, first butt-pirate, and now that? Where are you picking up this stuff, anyway?”

“Hey, I read,” Dean replies, his smile a bit forced.

“So what, if I riffle through your backpack, I'll find back issues of _Instinct_ and _Out_ mixed in with the sticky copies of _Busty Asian Beauties_?”

“Maybe. And I read 'em _all_ for the articles,” Dean retorts, jamming the accelerator down and whipping the Impala around a slow-moving Ford SUV. “I like a little variety. Always have. Really, you over-analyze shit, little bro.”

“That's a good one,” Sam barks back. “So what I'm hearing you say is, that now, you've got gaydar.”

“What? No. That's not—”

"Dunno, Dean. Anyone claiming to be able to easily identify someone who's gay simply by observing their appearance and mannerisms could be said to possess that mythical power of divination.”

“I don't have—that. Thing. Which isn't a real _thing_ , anyway. Is it?”

Sam leans back and stares out his window at the blur of brownish scenery rushing by. “Dunno. Call it whatever you want then. I know what I'd call it, but that's me, though we're talking about you right now." He pauses meaningfully before sparing his brother a sidelong glance.

Dean's staring straight ahead, his jaw muscles clenching in a way that suggests either serious thought or righteous indignation. “Since when is being observant anything other than—being observant?"

Sam shrugs and holds Dean's gaze.

Dean sags further down in the bench seat. "What?"

“Nothin'. Just lookin'.”

“Dude, no. Uh-uh. No effin' way. Don't even try to make this about me.”

“Well, not like I really have to try,” Sam answers, unable to suppress a smile as Dean's cheeks flush the slightest pink. “For some reason, you're fixated on Stipe's sexuality. Cool, whatever. But what I'd like to know is, why are you so passionate about how he's handling his personal affairs? What's it to you if he ever comes out? There's gotta be some deep-seeded reason. Off the cuff, I'd say it's a classic case of transference.”

Dean glares at Sam as long as he dares before snapping his attention back to the two-lane blacktop. “Spare me the Psych 101 melodrama, college boy. Unlike your idol Stipe, I'm totally comfortable with my body _and_ my sexuality.”

Sam can't restrain his laughter so he doesn't even try.

His big brother's a gnarled mass of repressed feelings and overcompensation issues, and Sam's pretty damn certain Dean knows it, too. After the motel bed shenanigans they get down to on a regular basis, which Dean often initiates, participates in, and clearly enjoys, the fact the Dean still refuses to admit his sexual bent, whatever it might be, even in private, oftentimes drives Sam to distraction. It's not that Sam's a fan of labels, and he doesn't want to pigeonhole himself, Dean, or anyone else, but maybe, someday, a little transparency might be kinda cool.

 _Especially_ from Dean.

Add on the fact that they don't have a lot of time left before Dean's contract comes due, and Sam finds he's less and less inclined to let the elephant in the room continue to go unnoticed.

He decides to press the issue again and leans across the bench seat, closing the space between them. “And that sexuality is?”

Dean holds up a hand. “Alright, that's it. I was just tryin' to pass the time here, make a little conversation, but as usual, you get super-serious and blow everything way out of proportion. I’m my own person, too, and I ain't gonna sit here getting all touchy-feely about my private business. Besides, this is the twenty-first century, right? About time we moved beyond archaic gender roles, ain't it?”

“Oh. My. God. You're just repeating stuff I've said before!”

“So? It's still true, isn't it?”

“Dean—”

“Look,” Dean interrupts, “remember my _original_ point, okay? Stipe should man up and come out. He'd do himself a favor in the long run, and probably help a buttload of other folks in the process. Simple as that. It's clear you don't agree, so let's just drop it.”

“I never said I didn't agree—”

“Damn, there's still nothin' on,” Dean comments to no one, abandoning his efforts to find acceptable Arkansas FM. He spares Sam a sidelong glance before intently studying the ribbon of asphalt splayed out beyond the Impala's hood.

They drive in silence for many minutes before Sam throws his left arm over the seat back.

“Hey, Earth to Dean.”

“What?”

“You know I was just bustin' your eggs with the gaydar thing, right?”

Dean shakes his head. “I'm sorry I brought the whole thing up.”

“I'm not.”

“Sam—”

“You know you can talk to me about anything. _Anything_. I'm right here. I'll always be _right here_.”

Dean nods once, making a point to look anywhere but Sam's direction.

“So you can trust me, man. You gotta know that by now.” Sam slides across the vinyl, his fingertips grazing Dean's denim-clad shoulder. “It's just us out here, Dean. We're all we've got. We're all we're ever gonna have.”

“Sam,” Dean says evenly, his shoulder tensing. “I'm not having this conversation. Now or ever.”

“Forever's a long time. C'mon, like you were sayin' about Stipe, you'll feel better if you talk about it. It'll be like a weight's been lifted from your shoulders. I know this isn't your thing, but it’ll do wonders to lessen the burden you’re carryin’ around every day.”

“Since you know how I feel already, there's nothin' to say.” Dean grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white. “Just leave it. Okay?”

The last is nearly a whisper.

“I can’t, ‘cause I'm absolutely positive you'll feel better just sayin' it, ‘cause I feel loads better after I spilled the beans on that hunt in Connecticut last year, remember?”

Sam slides next to his brother, whose eyes are locked onto the double yellow of U.S. 67 winding out ahead of them.

Sam's never really understood the whole taboo about sexuality, anyway. 

Sure, he picked up pretty early on that same-sex relations weren't the norm, and it'd been crystal clear that his Dad definitely wasn't a fan of them, either. When it got right down to it, he's not even sure how he'd describe himself if pressed. He supposes pansexual's the closest term that might apply, as he's always fallen more for the 'real' person inside rather than the 'packaging', as it were.

He's seemed to alternate pretty evenly between groovin' on guys and girls all through the seemingly never-ending list of primary schools he'd been dragged to, though most of those relationships hadn't lasted more than a handful of dates or heavy-petting sessions. And he certainly didn't give two shits about who came on to him, as long as they were sincere about it.

He's only gotten “serious” a handful of times, though: there'd been little Jeff from East Lansing, fearless Mayella from Maycomb, and at Stanford, there'd been Brady and his dear, sweet Jess.

And as much as he loved and cared about all of them, there's always been someone else who'd owned his heart and soul for as long as he could remember. It'd taken him years to finally realize and accept the fact that he loved Dean more than life itself, and that there'd never be anyone who'd ever come close to that. They'd been through so much together, seen too much, and been forever changed by it. No one would ever understand him like Dean did, nor would anyone else appreciate, let alone put up with, his big brother like Sam did.

It's been a seriously long and winding road that's enabled Sam to be okay with the fact that he's in love with and being fucked by his brother. Or fucking, depending on those rare turns in Dean's mood. It made perfect sense, really, if anything about their bizarre lives made any kind of sense:  Who best to be in love with than another Hunter? Someone else who knew the dangers, someone who understands the risks? Someone capable of having your back at all times, protecting you when the undead or the very spawn of Hell are hot on your heels.

And bonus points if that particular Hunter happened to be Dean.

A no-brainer from Sam's current perspective. So the question burning in Sam's mind now is whether Dean will _ever_ be ready to arrive at the same conclusion.

“You know I love you, man,” Sam says suddenly, almost surprising himself.

Dean swallows hard, his gaze dead forward.

“Fuck, Sam.”

Sam realizes it's not the best course of action to press Dean like this, but one of these days, Dean'll let his formidable barriers drop. Sam's been more than a little persistent on that front since the Trickster fucked him over with that time-loop down in Florida, and considering what'll happen if they can't get Dean out of his demon contract, now's as good a time as any set the record straight.

Sam can't count on much, but if there's anything that's certain in his freaky reality, it's the concrete knowledge that he's Dean’s entire world.

And Dean's his.

In the here and now, though, Sam wants Dean to come clean.

 _Needs_ him to.

“Dean?”

Dean glares at Sam, his eyes glistening a little. “C'mon, Sammy, okay?” He swallows hard, returning his attention to the highway. “If you don't know how I feel about you by now—”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam replies, his left hand sliding down Dean's right sleeve, coming to rest on Dean's jean-clad thigh. “I just—”

“There it is, then.” Dean flashes a pained smirk before laying his right hand atop Sam's and curling his thick fingers between Sam's long, slender ones.

It's a familiar gesture, more of a routine, really, one they've repeated over and over through the years, across the countless miles they've traveled together.

Sam leans back as Dean drives, the rumble of the Impala's engine a perfect counterpoint to the drone of her radials on the asphalt. The day's bright but not too sunny, and unseasonably warm. Perfect, actually, and Sam muses that he could ride with Dean like this forever. If there is a Heaven, he hopes it's something like this. He hunkers down, leaning into Dean's shoulder as the world flies by beyond the tinted glass.

The Impala devours mile after mile of two-lane and the minutes multiply amongst themselves.

Before long, Dean disengages his hand to spin the tuner of the uncooperative Audiovox.

Sam's surprised when he realizes that the thing's been playing nothing but static since R.E.M. fizzled out a county ago.

“You hungry?” Dean asks without looking down.

“Always,” Sam answers, feeling way too comfy.

“That's two of us. Some down-home Arkansas barbeque sounds perfect. Should be scads of little joints around here. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome. My treat, Sasquatch. Keep an eye out for a good place, okay?” Dean looks down then and smiles, that lopsided, half-smirk that he seems to reserve for Sam and Sam alone.

Sam knows it’s also a signal that they’re good and everything’s cool.

“Too quiet in here.” Dean fusses with the radio a bit before switching it off altogether. "Damn thing."

"Still nothin', huh?" Sam knows the cassette player quit working two states ago. He sits up and slides back to his usual spot on the passenger side of the wide bench seat.

Dean snorts. "It’s not like there’s tons of classic rock to be had in what, Pig's Knuckle, Arkansas."

"Where?" Sam says, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's too hilarious that Dean completely loses all semblance of humanity if Led Zeppelin, Cream or Deep Purple aren't readily available. "There's no such place."

"How do you know? We passed through a Bald Knob, for fuck's sake."

Sam pulls his Treo from his pocket, attempting once again to coax the cranky thing back to life.

Dean nods his head in Sam's direction. "Still on the fritz, huh? Shoulda just stuck with a good old flip phone.”

Sam pulls a face. "The battery doesn't charge all the time.” He gestures to the Impala's dash. “Definitely need a new charger, or maybe there's something wrong with the lighter socket. Not enough juice or something.”

“Ain't _nothing_ wrong with my car.” Dean's statement is as much of a warning as anything else.

“Whatever you say, man. Silly me thinking the problem might be in the forty-year old wiring rather than modern technology.” Sam does his best to conceal a grin. He counts silently: _one... two... three..._

“Hey, don't badmouth Baby. If you don't like her, you can hit the pavement anytime.”

“M'not badmouthing the Impala, Dean,” Sam replies amidst soft boops and beeps. “You said yourself that you need to do some rewiring in the dash.”

“You've had nothing but trouble with that thing since day one,” Dean mutters, sparing the silent radio a menacing glance. He jams his foot down on the gas, whipping the Impala across the double yellow and around a tractor towing a wagon over-filled with brush. "Here, check for messages.” He fishes his cell from his jacket pocket and tosses it to Sam. “Thought I felt it vibratin', so maybe it's Bobby with a lead on Bela and the Colt.”

Sam flips open the cell and scans the most recent messages. “Yeah, there's one from Bobby, but not about the Colt. Something going on with a murder house in Appleton, Wisconsin.”

“I'm tingly already,” Dean quips around a grin. “What's the low down?”

Sam quickly scans Bobby's lengthy text.

“Typical for an abandoned house with a local legend. Mostly nosy kids breaking in and vandalizing the place. Weird shit goes down every Leap Year. Folks go missing in the days before the twenty-ninth, and most of 'em are never seen or heard from again. Those that make it out all say the place is haunted.” Sam reads a bit more before flipping the cell closed and handing it back to Dean. “Looks like we're headed to Wisconsin after we check out Bobby's lead in Tennessee.”

“Still don't think there's anything going down over there. What's the name of the place again?”

“Ripley, a smallish town south of Nashville.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just some cattle mutilations and a few missing persons, right?”

Sam nods. “Basically. No supernatural history, no recent signs of demonic activity, no lunar cycle match, but the way the cattle were mutilated was really precise, possibly ritualistic.”

Dean makes a rude noise. "Pretty thin stuff."

“True, but we'll hit Ripley by nightfall, and it shouldn't take long to swing by the Sheriff's office first thing and run down leads. I'll get started researching this murder house, and we can be in Appleton sometime on the twenty-eighth. Plenty of time.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan. And if either of those places has a decent burger joint, all the better.” Dean grabs his crotch and adjusts himself. Forcefully.

"Something wrong?" Sam shifts in his seat to get a better vantage point.

“No,” Dean replies, squirming some more and clearly failing to find a comfortable position.

“Sure looks like there is.”

Dean wasn't exactly the best at provisioning, unless it was food. Or beer. Everything else Sam handles, including their daily essentials and clothing. It wasn't the best or most fair arrangement, but it was certainly the least painful. When they'd first hit the road together, Sam had suggested that they split the duties fifty-fifty, including the laundry.

It wasn't long before Sam discovered that while his older brother was an awesome Hunter, Dean didn't know squat about the sorting or washing of clothes. Several laundry disasters later, Sam had taken over.

Dean also tended to wear things until they either stood up by themselves or reverted to their base elements. Consequently, Sam had chucked Dean's last pair of underwear yesterday.

“I'm fine,” Dean says through clenched teeth.

“Going commando not what it's cracked up to be, huh?”

“It's _fine_. I'm just not used to... to—”

“Used to what?” Sam leans toward Dean, who spares him a pained glance.

“It's... well... shit!” Dean shifts around some more, spreading his legs as far apart as he can. “I'm just not used to all the—space. I kinda like things, ya know, more contained.”

“Contained?” Sam feels a full-blown laughing fit coming on, and does his best to head it off with some fake coughs.

“Fuck off! You're the underwear whore, not me.”

“Christ, you'd buy shorts at second hand stores if they sold 'em there. And just because I've got a little selectivity—”

“Hah,” Dean snorts as he notices a state trooper parked behind an upcoming tree and decelerates. “You spend as much time with your nose in that _Abercrombie & Fitch_ catalog as you do in Dad's journal.”

“I do not.”

“Do so.”

“I haven't seen a catalog in months.”

“More like days,” Dean smirks, triumphant.

There are only two luxuries that Sam indulges in: his computer and his clothes. His laptop is rarely a bone of contention though, as it's become an integral part of their hunting. Sure, he's a bit picky about what he buys to wear, but he doesn't go overboard with it. He does his best to select stuff that will not only be durable and practical, but comfortable as well. And if it's vaguely stylish too, then bonus points all around. He takes care of the few things he owns, which isn't an easy task, considering. He's certainly not like Dean, who thinks that everything's disposable.

“Over-priced, over-marketed junk,” Dean throws out casually. “You waste too much money on that crap.”

“It's my money to _waste_ , and it's better that than buying whatever's in the bargain bin and having it fall off in a few weeks. I've had these jeans for nearly a year.” Sam nods to Dean's jeans. “Look at those things. Haven't had 'em a month, and they're already a mess. That cheap denim's probably as coarse as 60-grit sandpaper, and they don't fit you for shit.”

Dean pulls a face. “They fit me fine.”

“Sure they do.”

“What's wrong with 'em?”

“For starters, they're so baggy in the ass—aww, forget it.”

“I think I look good in these.” Dean shakes his head. “Sometimes I can't believe we're related.”

“Don't be stupid,” Sam sighs, staring out his window. He can tell they're approaching a town, as the houses lining the road are closer to one another, and the speed limit's dropped from 55 to 40. “We've got different tastes, that's all. I take care of my stuff. You don't. Been that way since we were kids.”

“Different tastes, all right,” Dean grumbles, playing with the radio again. “Mine's good. Yours isn't.” He finds only a handful of stations as he spins the tuning knob, nothing but scratchy country, right-wing news, or twangy preachers. “This sucks.”

“Uh-huh. Might be time for a new radio.”

Dean turns off the Audiovox again as they roll to a stop at the town's first traffic light. “Maybe, but I doubt this burgh will have a huge selection of electronics stores. Where are we again? Musta missed any signs.”

“Hang on.” Sam unfolds the map of Arkansas, trailing his long finger along the yellow line representing U.S. 67. “Um, we should be close to someplace called Hoxie.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope. Already there.” Sam points ahead. “Hoxie Suds & Grub. And Tattoo Parlor. And One-Hour Photo. And Nail Salon. Wow, talk about casting a wide net.”

“If they had Asian massage, we'd be stoppin'.”

“Or wi-fi,” Sam adds. “Town looks too small to have a nice internet café.” He hooks a thumb toward the Hoxie Suds & Grub. “Wanna eat here?”

Dean pulls a face. “Nah. Saw a sign a while back for an Ole Hickory Bar-B-Q in Walnut Ridge. Should be around here somewhere.”

“So, you noticed a sign about a place to eat, but—”

“How far?” Dean rumbles.

“Walnut Ridge... looks to be a few miles ahead.”

Dean swerves around a slow moving Crown Victoria as the roadway widens to four lanes. “Shit!” He roughly yanks on the crotch of his jeans.

“We gotta get you some new clothes, pronto. Jonesboro's only about twenty, maybe thirty minutes away, and they're sure to have what we need over there.” Sam refolds the map to better gauge their new route.

“I think we're good, little bro. Seems like civilization's made its way to Walnut Ridge.” Dean points to a huge sign coming up on their left. “Everything anyone could need under one roof. Well, everything but beer, tattoos and massage, that is.” He flicks on the Impala's turn signal.

“Damn it, Dean, you know I hate this place.”

“Suck it up, Sammy. Time to snag some new skivvies, and maybe a stereo for my baby, too.”

“Whatever.”

Sam lets out a deep breath as the Impala slides into an empty parking space.

  


**~~~~~ * * * * * ~~~~~**

  


“They must've just finished this place hours ago. You can still smell the fresh paint.” Sam jams his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans as the automatic doors whoosh apart at their approach.

“Awesome. That means the restrooms might still be usable.” Dean glances at his brother, one eyebrow arched high. “Christ, Sammy, ya look like ya just wolfed a bad corn dog. Ease up, dude. We're not always gonna stumble across some hippie, co-op organic farmer's market, especially in the middle of by-god Arkansas.”

Sam doesn't respond, as there's little point. The best course of action is to just hunker down and roll with it.

“Welcome to our Walnut Ridge Wal-Mart!” blurts a short, middle-aged woman wearing an over-sized blue vest covered in buttons, the most prominent of which is a huge smiley face with a blinking red nose. Just above that, her name tag declares her to be _Melvina_. She thrusts a colorful flier into Dean's chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Lotsa bargains in our opening week circular, hun!” She beams up at Dean, her huge, artificial eyelashes fluttering like mutated hummingbird wings.

“Ah, thanks, um, Melvina,” Dean replies as he slowly pries the flier from her fingers.

“You're welcome, hun,” Melvina coos, her tone dropping a few registers. “We're sure to have _anything_ you need.” She licks her lips in a disturbingly seductive manner. “And if you can't find it, you just come runnin' to me, ya hear?”

“Uh, right.”

Sam notes that Dean's eyes have gone wide. “Do you have men's underwear on sale?” He pats Dean on the shoulder. “My brother here's doin' without 'cause he goes through undershorts like shit through a goose.”

Dean makes a strangled sound and takes a step backward.

Melvina's gaze flicks downward to Dean's crotch and lingers there. “Oh, dear.”

Before she can finish, Dean finds his voice again. “Okay, thanks, thanks a lot.” He flashes his trademark crooked grin, both hands sliding down with the flier centering over the front of his jeans. “Oh, and could you point us toward the lingerie section too?”

Melvina sighs, notably crestfallen. “Lookin' for a gift for a lady friend, then?”

Dean shakes his head, smirk still firmly in place. “Nah. For my little brother here. We haven't seen a Victoria's Secret in weeks, and he's gettin' _really_ cranky.” He slams the flier into Sam's chest and stalks off.

Melvina's nose wrinkles as she sizes up Sam from head to toe. “Uh- _huh_.”

Sam considers an appropriate response but decides that retreat is the better part of valor. He's about to set off after Dean when something about Melvina's expression strikes him as odd. He blinks and leans in a little for a better look, but Melvina averts her gaze with a grunt, turning away to shove fliers into the faces of recently arrived patrons.

Leaving her in his wake, Sam strides down the wide main aisle after Dean, who's already a fair distance away at the first big intersection. After several steps, Sam looks over his shoulder to find Melvina staring back at him, her expression one of obvious distaste.

“Small town,” Sam mutters to himself, quickening his pace to catch up to Dean. Had he seen something weird? Maybe, though being seriously observant was just his way, immediately sizing up folks and memorizing their stats for future reference. Most likely her poopy-pants expression was easily explained away as a not uncommon aversion to the notion of a six-foot-four dude prancing around in lingerie.

“Yo, Samantha, while we're young, okay?” Dean calls out, gesturing toward him.

It's not that he really minds Dean's jabs; it's just a thing that they do. They're brothers, after all, and part of the pathology involves doling out generous portions of ostensibly good-natured cut-downs and embarrassments.

And Sam can give as good as he gets.

What's really been annoying lately is Dean's almost continual use of the lingerie thing. They’re classic putdowns: _Little Sammy likes to wear girl's underwear! Doesn't Sammy need some new panties for the upcoming drag show?_ The list is almost endless.

He's nearly caught up to his brother, who's stopped an impossibly young, very blonde associate, asking her for directions.

Of course Dean knows that Sam hasn't the slightest predilection toward wearing women's clothes, underwear or otherwise. But there's something about how Dean just keeps pounding the tired joke home, over and over and over. Sam knows, too, that his older brother not only has a strangely kinky side, but never talks openly about said kinks. Does Dean secretly desire to parade around in frilly underclothes?

Or worse, is it that Dean wants to see _him_ in ladies’ unmentionables?

“Never gonna happen,” Sam says to himself.

What's most likely going on is just another facet of Dean, another complexity to the already Escher-like structure of his brother's psyche. Sometimes Sam imagines Dean as a jigsaw puzzle with all of the pieces the same color. It's a pretty bizarre thing to know so much about someone, but so little about how all the parts come together to interact and produce the person everyone sees. Sam smiles to himself, easily imagining the sort of comment Dean might offer to such musings.

“Hey, Sam!”

Dean's call breaks him from his reverie.

“Dude, pink is definitely _not_ your color.” Dean jerks his head.

Sam looks at the indicated rack. While lost in thought, he'd stopped next to a display of lacy corset girdle things in various colors. He'd walked right into that one, complete with a spacey grin.

Another thing about Dean: he wasn't one to miss a true blue window.

  


**~~~~~ * * * * * ~~~~~**

  


“I can't believe they don't carry any stereos with cassette players.” Dean eyes the carton with the Impala's new Audiovox CD stereo as if it's a curse box containing something particularly nasty.

“That's probably because they don't make _cassettes_ anymore.” Sam gestures to their right. “Looks like the men's stuff is over there.”

“That's just stupid,” Dean replies, tucking the box under an arm. “I've got all these tapes—”

“I've told you a million times that I can download all the music on your tapes and burn them to CDs. I can even make a greatest hits disc if you want. It'd be easy, Dean.”

“Yeah, you keep sayin' that.”

Sam can't resist a grin at his brother's displeasure. “Once you get used to the CD sound, I bet you won't miss the tapes at all. Most of yours are so worn out they're nothing but hiss anyway. Probably should think about some new speakers, too.”

Dean shakes his head. “Don't push it, Poindexter. One cataclysm at a time, okay?”

Sam puts up both hands in a gesture of surrender.

The pair finally arrive at their destination and Sam gestures expansively at the wide array of men's underwear displayed before them.

“There's gotta be something here that you'll like,” Sam mutters as he immediately begins searching for possible choices.

“Okay, these should do.” Dean yanks a package of underwear from the nearest hook and shoves it under his arm with the stereo. “Let's hit it.”

“You didn't even—you just grabbed the first thing you came to.”

“It's underwear, Sam. For most people, it's not a life or death decision.”

“Right.” Sam snatches the package.

“Hey!”

“Wow, nice choice,” Sam says, turning the package over. “Generic brand, fifty percent synthetic fibers. These should chafe nicely.”

“So what? Here. Gimme!” Dean grabs for the package of underwear, but Sam jerks it away.

“Briefs, too. You know you got 'Large', don't you? These things'll hang on you like crazy. You'll look like an eighty-year-old guy.”

“C'mon, I _need_ Larges.” Dean steps in, looking around to see if any other customers are nearby. “You know, for the extra space. In front.”

“Jesus.” Sam hangs the package back on its hook. “I think we can do better than that.”

“C'mon, man.”

“Here, try these, okay?” Sam hands Dean a different package, this one containing shorts in black, white and gray.

Dean scrutinizes the package as though he were trying to decipher hieroglyphics. “Nah. No way. I don't do foofy colors.” He thrusts the package back toward Sam.

“Dude, those'll look fine. They're mediums so they'll fit.” He pauses a moment. “And since when are white and gray _foofy_?"

Dean folds his arms. “I'm NOT wearing anything with “Joe Boxer” plastered all over the waistband. Ain't gonna happen.”

“Fine.” Sam takes the rejected Joe Boxers and returns them to their peg. “Here. Same style and size, but in white.” He scans the label. “All cotton, a name brand, and made in the good old U.S. of A.” He tosses the package to Dean, who catches it deftly.

He scans at the package for a brief moment before thrusting it back. “Nah. I want all black.”

Sam grabs the package, returns it to its peg, searches a moment and tosses Dean a package of the same brand, this time all in black. “There. Satisfied?”

Dean shrugs. “No, but since we're on our way to a job, I'm not gonna argue.”

“Great. Let's get the hell out of here. This muzak is starting to get to me.”

“Not so fast, little bro.” Dean holds up the package of underwear. “I'm not buying these until I try 'em on first.”

Sam can't keep his mouth from falling open. “Dean, you can’t _'try on'_ underwear!” He leans in, lowering his voice. “Quit being such a jerk. Tell me you're not serious. It's not, like, sanitary. Or even allowed.”

“Chill out, Mrs. Clean. I showered this morning.”

“That's not the point!” Sam lowers his voice further to a strained whisper. “What are you gonna do if you don't like 'em? Put 'em back?”

Dean gestures to a pair of ripped open packages dumped along the bottom of the display rack. “Seems like I'm not the only one who likes to be sure.” He smirks as he pushes past Sam toward the fitting booths.

“They're not going to let you try them on, Dean.”

“Watch and learn, Sammy. Watch and learn.”

Sam groans as he puts his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hard. Against his better judgment, he decides to catch up to his brother, who's impatiently leaning on the tiny counter situated in front of the two fitting booths.

“Hey, anybody home?” Dean makes a show of searching in, around, and behind the tiny counter in front of the booths. He tries the doorknobs on each booth,

“Dean, they're not gonna let you try those on.”

“So you're sayin' I should just pick the lock?” Dean shrugs. “Good idea.”

“Damn it, Dean.” Sam clamps a hand on Dean's shoulder. “Look.” Sam jerks his head to a large sign hung directly over the fitting booths. “See number 6? No hosiery or underwear allowed in the fitting rooms.”

Dean rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Rules schmules. I'll be able to talk my way in.” He winks.

“What're ya gonna do? We're not in a bar; you can't get the clerk plastered first before having your way with 'em.”

“I guarantee that I'll have whomever shows up eating out of my hand in less than a minute. Especially if they're under thirty.” He hikes up his jeans, grinning from ear to ear. “No one can resist when I pour on the Dean Winchester charm.”

“Can I help you?” booms a deep voice.

Sam and Dean turn in unison as a male associate approaches them. As tall as Sam and built like a linebacker, he steps up to the tiny counter. Sam notes that the guy's arms are probably bigger than his own thighs. Definite ex-football type, complete with a seriously over-blown flat-top, mullet-style haircut.

“Um, yeah, Aidan,” Sam says, allowing what has to be his best shit-eating grin to form as he reads the guy's name tag. “My brother here wants to try something on.” He glances at Dean, whose mouth is hanging open.

Aidan looks down at Dean for a second before indicating the package of underwear. “You can't try those on.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Didn't you read number 6?”

“Um, well—” Dean stutters.

“You were saying something about less than a minute,” Sam reminds him.

“Uh—”

“Hey, I'd love to stand around chewin' the fat, but I'm covering three departments,” Aidan quips, glancing from Dean to Sam and back again, scratching his head. “That's a new one. Wanting to try on _underwear_. Geez,” he snorts before sauntering off.

“Wow,” Sam comments dryly. “That was truly amazing. Great job with the charm thing. I think he sorta liked you, though.”

Dean looks as if he'd just bitten into a raw cheeseburger. “Stuff it.”

Sam winces and clutches his chest. “Ow! You really know how to sling the comebacks, bro. C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

With a growl, Dean reaches into his pocket to extract his trusty lock-picker. “Fuck the rules.” The next second, he's fiddling with the doorknob of the nearest fitting booth. “Shoulda taken the direct route in the first place.”

“My god,” Sam groans. “They've got security cameras everywhere. Man, I'll buy the effin' things, and if you don't like 'em, _I’ll_ wear 'em.”

Dean grins as the lock clicks and the door pops open. “Wouldn't want ya to lower your standards, Sammy.” He jerks his head to the empty fitting booth. “Wanna help asses the fit?”

“Just hurry the hell up,” Sam hisses, giving Dean his best bitchface.

Dean shrugs and looks up to the nearest black Plexiglas hemisphere attached to the ceiling. He gives it a smart salute before disappearing into the fitting booth and slamming the door.

Sam looks all around, attempting to discern whether any associates had noticed Dean's break-in.

“Fucking typical,” he mumbles, leaning against the small counter. Once Dean gets something in his head, there's no changing it. Especially if someone tells him he can’t do it. And the reverse psychology thing doesn't work, either; Sam's tried that too, with zero success.

With any luck, Dean would pop out of the fitting room in a minute or two, they'd check out and get the hell out of Walnut Ridge and on to their next hunt. If only—

“May I help you with something?”

Sam jumps in spite of himself. He hadn't noticed the young female associate that'd walked up from behind him. “No, no, I'm fine,” he stammers, hoping his smile looks genuine instead of plain stupid. “Just waiting for someone. In there,” he adds with a nervous chuckle.

The blonde, Lornette, nods sagely. “Oh, got it.” She tosses her head toward the fitting booths. “Your girlfriend taking forever to try stuff on, right?” She smiles. “Try to be patient, huh? We may take a while sometimes, but we're just tryin' to look the best we can for our men.”

Sam swallows a laugh, nearly choking in the process. “Oh, yeah, right. Thanks.”

“Well, if your girlfriend needs help with anything, send her my way. I'll be over in the next aisle stocking lingerie, okay?”

“Okay, sure,” Sam replies, his stomach flip-flopping.

Lornette smiles and turns to leave just as the lock to the fitting booth clicks and the door swings wide. Dean steps into the doorway, wearing nothing but one of the pairs of new boxer briefs. And his crew socks. Sam notes that the underwear fits nicely. _Really_ nicely. He knew they would, and Dean can pretty much throw on anything and look great in it.

Except for dollar store jeans, that is.

“You were right, Sam, these fit—” Dean stops in mid-sentence. “Hi,” he offers with a quick wave of his hand.

Lornette's face scrunches up as if she'd tromped onto a fresh cow flop. “Your _girlfriend_ , huh?” she says to Sam accusingly.

“I never said anything about—”

“Ewww,” Lornette bleats, looking disgustedly from Sam to Dean and back again. “This is a family store, you know.” She points a finger at Dean, who actually jumps. “What is your malfunction? You're not supposed to try on underwear!”

“Um,” Sam begins.

“Yeah, well,” Dean adds.

“What in blue blazes is goin' on over here?”

Sam watches Dean's eyes go wide. He looks over his shoulder to find Aidan standing just behind him, huge arms crossed over his barrel chest.

“Yeah, well,” Sam begins.

“Um,” Dean adds.

“These two—these—whatever they are,” Lornette stutters, still pointing at Dean, “they're, well, look!”

Aidan holds up a beefy hand. “Never mind, honey. I got it. Go on and get back to whatever you were workin' on.” His expression turns stony as he gives Dean a thorough head-to-toe. “I'll handle these jokers.”

Lornette wrinkles her nose as she flounces away. “Perverts.”

Sam groans. “I was just standing here.”

“That's what we call a lookout,” Aidan replies flatly, running a hand through his mulleted auburn mane.

“Oh, man.” Sam shoots his brother a nasty look. “This is exactly why I _hate_ these places.”

Aidan watches Lornette disappear around an end cap featuring a display of unsightly, rubber clog things. He raises an eyebrow at Sam before walking around the small counter to tower over Dean, who's simply standing in the doorway of the booth, his hands clasped over the front of his boxer briefs.

“You just don't like to follow the rules, do ya, buddy?” Aidan notes the stereo box visible on the floor of the fitting room. He indicates the sign over his head. “No other merchandise allowed in the fitting rooms.”

“Dean,” Dean says.

“What?”

“I'm Dean,” Dean repeats, offering his hand.

Aidan stares at the proffered hand warily. “You weren't planning on slipping the stereo into that big leather jacket of yours, were you, _Dean_?”

“Oh, shit.” Sam steps around the counter, palms upturned. “No, no, you've got this all wrong. We're just passing through on our way to visit a sick aunt up in Cleveland—”

“We're not shoplifting!” Dean adds a bit too petulantly.

“Save it, okay?” Aidan draws himself up, hooking both thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. “I pegged you two for what you are right off the bat. This ain't the big city, but we still know how to deal with your type around here.”

Dean's eyes are wide, his mouth agape. Again.

Aidan nods, an altogether unfriendly smile forming on his face. He yanks a cell phone from his belt and jabs a few buttons.

Sam shoots his brother a glance, mouthing the words _Nice job, dickhead_.

Dean waves a hand. “Hey, Aidan, this is just an unfortunate misunderstanding. How about we—”

Dean's cut off as Aidan draws the forefinger of his free hand across his throat. “Marcy? Aidan Johnson here. I've got a couple of suspicious characters at the men's fitting booths.” He stares directly at Dean. “Yeah, definite out-of-town types.”

Sam rubs his forehead while Dean folds his arms and leans against the door frame.

“Uh-huh,” Aidan continues. “Dunno what they're up to. Could be nothin', but I'm takin' them to the Security office now, so I'll be off the floor for a while.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

Sam notices a small crowd forming around them.

“Nope, nope, don't think I'll need the Sheriff. Not yet. I can handle 'em, no problem. I'll give you a buzz when I'm finished with 'em. Yeah, bye.” Aidan ends the call, quickly punching in another number. “Hey, it's me. I could use your help with a couple of shifty types I'm takin' to Security. They're gonna need special handlin'.”

“Damn it, Dean,” Sam says quietly.

“Chill, bro,” Dean replies. “I got his.” He arches an eyebrow to Aidan.

“Shit,” Sam mumbles.

“Yeah, _those_ two,” Aidan's saying, looking at Sam. “Yup, I figured you made 'em when they came in. Hard to miss. All that flannel. Right, see you in a few.” He clips the phone back onto his belt. “All right, I need both of you to come with me. We'll see if we can work this out, private like.”

Sam groans aloud and Dean retreats into the fitting booth and starts to close the door.

“Uh-uh!” Aidan barks out. “You both come as you are. Don't want you dumping any other merchandise on the way to Security.”

Dean pulls a face. “What could I be hiding, for chrissakes?”

“Save it, smart guy. Out here. Now.”

“Like this?”

Aidan plants his hands on his hips. “Shy all of a sudden?”

“Fine,” Dean snorts, bending over to pick up his clothes, jacket, the stereo box, and opened package of underwear.

Sam notes that Aidan's staring at Dean's admittedly nice backside.

“Okay, Officer Krupke. Let's go.” Dean smiles broadly.

Aidan gestures to the now sizable mob of customers and employees. “All right, make a space! Comin' through.” He points at Dean. “You first.” He nods to Sam. “Slim? Follow me. And no funny stuff. You make a break for it and I'll have the Sheriff here in no time flat. Drifter types like you, that'd be the last thing you'd want or need, right?”

Dean's already taken off toward the nearest wide aisle, so Sam merely nods. “Hey, we don't want any trouble. Really.”

Aidan grunts and lumbers after Dean, and Sam takes his place in the last position of their absurd conga line. “Keep it moving, tough guy,” Aidan grumbles, and Sam confirms that the beefy guard's still staring at Dean's backside.

His brother _does_ have a nice ass.

Though they could easily outrun Aidan under normal circumstances, Dean's stocking feet wouldn't have any traction on the freshly waxed floors. And Aidan had been right; a run in with a small town Sheriff itching to teach out-of-towners a lesson was never a good thing.

So nothing to do but roll with it. Sam fingers the stubby hilt of the shiv in its belt holster, hoping to all Hell that he won't have to use it.

Aidan glances over his shoulder, still smirking.

Sam averts the gaze, his mind threatening to fly into an uncontrolled overdrive. He really can't stand it when things go off the rails, and the horrible muzak version of “Afternoon Delight” wafting through the store does nothing to calm his nerves. He sucks in deep breaths and looks ahead and down, focusing on the small leather patch embroidered into the right back pocket of Aidan's jeans. Wranglers, the old-school type, and well worn by the look of them. As they march on, he mentally reviews all the research he's done on the possible hunt in Ripley before creating a short to-do list in preparation for the festivities in Appleton. Such 'cerebral calisthenics' help to calm his always busy brain, and Sam lets out a breath of relief as the tightness in his chest subsides.

Aidan's giving off a clearly predatory vibe, and Sam can't shake the impression that he's definitely smarter than he looks. It'd been pretty clear that they hadn't been lifting any merchandise, at least this time, so why all the hooey over violating a minor changing room policy? He's pretty sure of what Dean's got in mind to get them out of their bind, though the prospect's churning his stomach already. Aidan's most likely just throwing his new-found authority around, but the little voice in the back of Sam's head keeps insisting otherwise.

Sam scans the sales floor as they approach the rear of the store, but no one else follows them. Nothing seems amiss or out of place, and as far as he can tell, it's just another of the countless, cookie-cutter big box retail outlets sprouting up across the country like weeds.

But something was seriously _wrong_ somehow, and though Sam can feel it in his very bones, he can't quite put a finger on it.

Aidan directs them through a set of double doors which lead to the vast stockroom. “Way in the back, over there.” Sam and Dean look in the indicated direction, where, sure enough, a metal door bears the word SECURITY in big block letters.

Dean steps aside as he reaches the door, allowing Aidan to unlock and open it.

“Inside.” Aidan shoves the door open, reaching inside to flick on the lights.

Sam follows right behind Dean, taking in the office. Brand spanking new and unsurprisingly utilitarian: a big desk with two chairs in front of it; a small bank of monitors on a shelf behind with another larger spread of monitors on the side wall. Metal shelving lines one wall, with a cheap looking plaid loveseat and matching chair along the other.

Dean dumps his armload on the desk as Aidan closes the door. “Can I get dressed now?”

“Not yet, muffin,” Aidan quips, eliciting a serious double take from Dean. “Yo, slim.” Aidan twirls a hand at Sam. “Take off that jacket and put it on the desk. And don't try anything stupid with that lil' pig-sticker of yours.” He points to the desktop. “Put it here, pronto.”

Sam complies, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the desktop. He slowly removes his shiv, barely quashing the urge to whip it across the office right into Aidan's thick neck.

Dean gives him a minute nod, and Sam drops the shiv to the desk, backing away with his palms up.

“That's better.” Aidan closes the blinds on the door before making quite a show of strutting his way over to the desk. “We've got ourselves a rather vexin' situation here. I could call the Sheriff out, and that'd take time. And there'd be more questions, and that'd take even _more_ time. I say we nix all the bullcrap and see if we can settle things ourselves.”

Sam looks to Dean, who folds his arms across his chest again.

Aidan unclips his cell from his belt and switches it off. He opens the top drawer of the desk, extracting a small brown bag to dump its contents onto the desktop. “Homemade goodies,” he says absently, popping one into his mouth. “Try one. Old family recipe.”

Dean's expression softens before going the slightest bit blank.

Sam's chest tightens up instantly.

“They sure look good,” Dean says dreamily.

“Help yourself.” Aidan shoves the pile of chocolatey things toward Dean.

“Uh, Dean,” Sam warns, annoyed at how his voice breaks.

“Don't want to be rude,” Dean replies, snatching up a handful of the morsels and devouring them. “Oooh, yeah.”

“Dean!”

“I'm starvin', and they're really good.” Dean closes his eyes, munching away with abandon.

“Good stuff, ain't it,” Aidan trills, his eyes locked on Dean. “Plenty more where that came from.” He moves in, mouthing something silently.

“We weren't shoplifting,” Sam says, a swarm of butterflies rising up in his gut. This was definitely made of wrong, and getting more so by the second. He glances wildly around the room, looking for anything that could be used in self-defense. Or offense, for that matter.

“Oh, I know you weren't stealing anything,” Aidan says aloud, still staring at Dean. “But when folks like you show up, there's things that need done, as unpleasant as they might be.” He chants again, audibly this time.

Sam can't make out the words; it's an old tongue, aboriginal American most likely, though he can't immediately place it. The dialect is mixed up and uneven, possibly a blending of two or three languages.

Dean finishes his second handful of chocolates, his eyes now unfocused and glassy. He takes a step toward Aidan, one hand straying down to the definitely tented fly of his boxer briefs. “Those were freakin' delicious.”

“Knew you'd like 'em,” Aidan chuckles, loosening his clip-on tie and tossing it to the desk. He rips open his shirt, pearly buttons flying everywhere. “Not in such a hurry to leave, now are ya?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Atta boy. Now, we're gonna have us a little fun before I do what I gotta to do. Can't let a hot package like you go to waste.” He shrugs out of his shirt to unbuckle his belt, glancing at Sam. “Play your cards right, and I'll do the same for you, Slim.”

“Dean! Get away from him!” Sam lunges for the shelving, scrabbling through the heaped merchandise.

“Hang tight, there,” Aidan trills, a meaty paw clamped around Dean's throat. “Don't want me to hurt your beautiful boyfriend anymore than I hafta, now do ya? Lookit him, all smilin' and hard for me. A cryin' shame to waste the mood now it's set, right?”

“He’s my brother,” Sam says evenly, his fingertips grazing the barrel of an electric green aluminum baseball bat.

Aidan cocks his head to one side. “Say what?” He sizes up Dean, then Sam, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he shrugs. “Well, ain't that a slice. Not to mention screwed up as all hell, but I reckon it ain't for me to judge.”

“C'mon, man, we don't want any trouble.”

“Well, you done stepped right into a big pile of it, bustin’ in here all loud and proud. I knew what you was right off, and if you two had just checked out and driven away, well, I’d been okay with that and gone about my day. I don't run around lookin' for trouble, but you stuck your noses in where they didn't belong, so here we are.”

“You're gonna kill us,” Sam seethes, curling his fingers around the bat's grip.

“Yep, I am,” Aidan replies, his free hand popping open his jeans. “When Hunters show up on your doorstep, ya gotta take the offensive. I've no quarrel with you, that's true, but I seriously doubt you'd let me turn ya. Well, I've pretty much turned your brother here, and I could keep him if'n I wanted, but somethin' tells me that even in my thrall, he wouldn't cotton to the notion of me havin' to have eaten most of you. Just don't fight it, Slim. I promise when your time comes, I'll make it quick and clean.”

“It's Sam,” Sam says through clenched teeth. His stomach churns at the sight of Dean, clearly enthralled, his right hand stroking the outline of his boxer-clad erection, his left caressing Aidan's right forearm. “You don't have to do this. We didn't even know about you.” He puts up his free hand in a gesture of surrender, struggling to maintain an even tone. “Don't hurt him, man, okay? Let us go, and I give you my word you'll never see us again.”

Aidan tilts his head in an almost comical manner, and Sam can't tell if the thing is seriously considering his words or merely mocking him.

Dean starts grinding his hips; he bites his bottom lip and shoves his hand down inside the boxer briefs.

“Dean, c'mon!” Sam cries out, his mind becoming a whirring blur.

“I'm sorry, Sam, I truly am,” Aidan finally replies with a small shrug. “Maybe your word's good, maybe it ain't. I can't take the chance, not when my family's safety's on the line. Family always comes first, right?” He glances toward the bank of monitors displaying ever-changing, black-and-white images of the sales floor and parking lot. “Can't wait all day. Okay, Dean, let's get to it.”

“No!” Sam yells, but before he can take a step, Aidan's free hand whips up, palm down, all five fingers flat and pointed in Sam's direction.

Aidan chants again, and Sam's head begins to swim, the sing-song cadence of Aidan's voice working its way into his very soul. The office tilts alarmingly for a second or two, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut to concentrate, his right hand clamped onto the bat as if it were an anchor. He slumps into the shelving unit, fighting to center himself and counter Aidan's spellcasting.

The dizziness persists, and Sam runs through his entire regimen of centering techniques. He keeps at it, gradually pushing the magic up and out of his body. He cracks open an eye to find Aidan still casting, but clearly surprised.

Slender, curling tendrils of mossy green energy hang in the air between them, emanating from Aidan's mouth, their tips scrabbling about as if angry at being refused sanctuary. Sam takes deep breaths and thrusts out his own hand, palm out, and wills the tentacles back.

The tendrils only quiver at first, then violent shudders course through them. They flail about, and Sam can hear a popping and soft crackling as they retreat across the office.

Sam redoubles his efforts, his head clearing, his resolve restored.

Aidan actually stumbles then, and the tendrils instantly retract, disappearing completely as Aidan ceases chanting. “What the _fuck_ are you?” he says breathlessly.

“I told you. My name's Sam, and we're the fucking Winchesters,” Sam yells, whipping the bat from the shelves and hurling himself toward the beast.

Aidan roars then, a deep, guttural sound no human could ever make.

The outburst startles Sam, and sends Dean stumbling backward.

Sam watches as Aidan sucks in deep breaths, his body expanding and growing with each massive exhale. Fur sprouts from every pore, quickly covering the beast in a thick, black-brown pelt. It quickly rips out of its jeans and the thing keeps growing, until the top of its head brushes the drop ceiling.

“Dean!” Sam, yells, working to tear his gaze from the furred monstrosity staring back at him.

Dean blinks and stumbles again, clearly confused. He tumbles to the floor in a tangled heap.

“Dean, man, c’mon! Get up!” Sam throws up his hand again, but can barely maintain his concentration; now that Aidan's transformed, it's all he can do to hold the thing at bay. “Dean!”

“Sammy?” Dean struggles to stand, shaking his head to clear it.

“Now why'd you have to piss me off?” the Aidan-thing rumbles, quivering with rage. “He's mine now. And you can't hold me forever, little freak.”

“Dean? If you understand me gimme the sign!”

Dean sucks in a deep breath while throwing Sam a 'peace' sign. “What the fuck?”

“Get up, Dean! Now!”

“He can't!” Aidan grumbles, though Sam discerns what can only be doubt etched onto the thing's bearish features.

“What the _fuck_!” Dean cries out, his eyes wide. He stands and gives the Aidan-thing a wide berth.

“Hug it!” Sam replies, his vision blurring, his mind a runaway train about to de-rail.

“Are you fuckin' nuts?!” Dean backs into the wall, taking in the furred beast from head to toe.

Aidan roars again, but doesn't move toward either brother. It waves it's huge, taloned paws over its head, looking more annoyed than threatening.

“Hurry!” Sam yells. “It's a Bearwalker. Give the damn thing your best hug!”

“Jesus!”

“Just fuckin' do it!” Sam wails, jagged bolts of pain bouncing around inside his skull.

“Shit!” Dean complies, lunging forward and doing his best to wrap his arms around the thing's thick midsection.

The Aidan-thing howls mournfully, wrapping its shaggy arms around Dean and immediately shrinking down, waves of heat bursting outward.

“Hold it tight!” Sam says, the dizziness back with a vengeance.

“It smells like a freakin' stable at high noon!” Dean complains.

Aidan grows smaller and smaller, quickly reduced to his human form. He writhes in Dean's grip, unable to extricate himself.

Sam takes a deep breath just as the door of the office bangs open.

Melvina bursts in, her mouth twisted into an angry snarl. “Pig fuckin' Hunters! I knew it!”

“Kill 'em!” Aidan shouts, struggling but still firmly in Dean's grasp.

“On it!” Melvina growls, hurling herself at Sam.

Sam grips his bat with both hands, swinging it up and out in a wide, roundhouse arc. He barely maintains his balance but catches Melvina square in the jaw, sending her cartwheeling into the bank of video monitors and then tumbling to the floor amidst a shower of sparks.

“Yo, Dean!” Sam tosses the bat to his brother, who releases Aidan to catch it deftly.

“Batter up!” Dean cries out around a grin, taking a few steps backward. He swings wide, solidly connecting with Aidan's left temple.

Aidan crumples sideways, rolling across the desktop and to the floor. Dean advances on the prone beast, administering the killing blow.

“Yo Sam! Want me to finish her?”

Sam looks to Melvina, who's snarling and spitting away as she struggles to regain her feet.

“Nah. I'll get it.”

Dean hands over the bat. “Man, now I understand why you hate this place.”

  


**~~~~~ * * * * * ~~~~~**

  


“This pizza sucks.” Dean tosses the half-eaten piece back into the nearly empty pizza box.

“Didn't stop you from eating half of it.”

“I was hungry.”

Sam laughs. “Me too. Quite a workout back there.”

“Man, and I was really looking forward to some down-home barbeque.” Dean leans over the pizza box and wrinkles his nose. “Bites that we had to haul ass outta town so fast.” He slams the lid and shoves the box off their bed.

“Dude, I'm surprised we even made it out of the _store_ , after all that roaring and howling.” Sam leans over his side of the bed to fish around in their trusty Coleman cooler, extracting a pair of fresh beers. “It's a good bet Aidan cast some kind of silencing spell, though, a sort of Muffliato.” He chuckles as he pops the caps, hands Dean a bottle, and flips the caps into the trash can by the TV.

“A muffler-what?”

“Muff- _liato_. An obfuscation charm. From _Harry Potter_?”

“Could you be any more of a geek?” Dean asks, rolling his eyes.

“Probably.”

“So aside from dork-ass spells, how'd you know Mullet Boy was some kind of big bad?” Dean clinks his bottle to Sam's.

“I really didn't. It was more of a gut feeling the first time I laid eyes on him. I figured he wasn't the Rotary Club type, but it wasn't until he had us in the office and started chanting that I knew we were in for it. I thought I saw flashes of spectral fire earlier, but I chalked it up to that god-awful fluorescent lighting.” Sam takes a deep swallow of beer. “Once he'd enthralled you, I was pretty sure we were dealing with a Bearwalker.”

“Dad's journal never mentioned anything about the Chippewa making their way down to Arkansas.”

“Every native American tribe had shamen, Dean. The Iroquois and Algonquin have solid Bearwalker lore, and I bet if we dug around long enough, we'd find similar legends for the Cherokee, Choctaw and Quapaw, too. Apparently a high priest going darkside wasn't limited to Michigan and the Chippewa.”

“Monsters everywhere, man. And I thought Ohio was extra creepy.” Dean pulls long and hard on his own beer. “So he drugged me with those chocolate berry things—”

“You're too effin' easy, man. You'd do anything for food.”

“They were effin' delicious, is what they were!” Dean protests, punching Sam in the shoulder.

“They were supposed to be, jerk. He probably laced 'em with some arcane mixture of nuts, wildflowers, roots and who knows what. That set the stage, and it was easier for his mojo to do its thing. Don't forget we're talking shaman here. A spellcaster. Magic, of the oldest kind, maybe dating all the way back to when man first came to North America across that Russian land bridge.”

“Damn. Puts a new twist on the not takin' candy from a stranger thing. And that's how he added to his 'family', not to mention trap dinner. So Melvina was his prime bitch?”

“More'n likely.”

Dean pulls a face. “Ya know, I get that the pickins musta been pretty slim around here, but seriously? Ugh.”

“He probably chose her based on something more important than mere aesthetics,” Sam muses around a grin.

“Whatever. So you're thinkin' she was more than just an enthralled stooge, then?”

“I'd say so,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I noticed something about her eyes when we first walked in the store, and back in the office, I was pretty sure she was growing fangs. Bearwalkers shapeshift because they've learned to. It's not a genetic thing, like with proper shapeshifters, so I'm thinking Aidan was kinda selective as to whom he chose to enthrall and train as opposed to whom he merely stunned and devoured. Melvina was obviously in the former category, and I fell into the latter.”

“Like I was sayin', his taste was in his ass.” Dean harrumphs and quaffs a hefty portion of his beer. “Man, I'm so glad I didn't kiss him. Or worse.”

Sam nods. “You're not the only one. It's possible there's an infectious component at work here, like vampirism, and Aidan talked a lot about turning you, which would seem to imply just that. But since you weren't bitten and didn't ingest any bodily fluids, I bet you're okay. He could've been some variant form of Bearwalker no one's ever seen before.”

“Or lived to talk about.”

“Yep. The only loose end that's bugging me is that he mentioned family, so how many qausi-bearwalkers are running around back there?”

“Well, I checked out the sheriff’s website while you were in the shower, and I didn’t see any freaky reports. The on-line records only went back five years, though.”

“It's gotta be a seriously protracted process, you know, learning how to turn yourself into what Aidan could turn himself into. Like years, decades, or even longer. He may have looked twenty-five or thirty, but he was probably a lot older.”

“No doubt. And luckily for us, dear Melvina was still a pledge.”

“Seems that way. So the rest of the _family_ , if any, shouldn’t be any further along than Melvina, and not much of a threat. With Aidan dead, they might even revert to normal.” Sam takes a big swallow of beer. “Better let Bobby know to put Walnut Ridge on the list of places we keep an eye on.”

“Ten-four on that. And we can add Bearwalker to our dance card. Can't believe I forgot about the hugging thing, though.”

Sam shrugs. “Understandable, considering you were, well, _charmed_ at the time.” He smiles and quickly takes a sip of beer.

“Very funny, Hermione,” Dean retorts. “I was _not_ charmed. More like tranquilized.”

“Anyway, all the lore I've ever read on Bearwalkers says you can hold 'em or even return 'em to their human form by hugging 'em. Something about the connection between the beast and the enthralled and the newly established bond temporarily working both ways. I bet Aidan never messed around with anyone strong enough to resist his magics before.”

“I wasn't that into him.”

“Didn't look that way.”

“Save it,” Dean grumps, waving a hand. “You're too damn sensitive. I'd've done what I needed to do to save our asses. To save your ass.”

“Dean, I know that—”

Dean shrugs. “Whatever. Check the lore, though. Bearwalkers can't fully enthrall someone who's heart's already taken.”

Sam blinks a few times before he's aware his mouth's hanging open. His Dean never ceases to amaze.

“We're also made of awesome, so there's that,” Dean says around a proud grin. “And like every other shapeshifter we've seen, they're virtually powerless when transforming. Every nasty has a weakness.”

“Still, he was one powerful shaman. Pretty freakin' scary.”

Dean nods and favors Sam with an appraising stare. “You know, things get a little fuzzy after the everlasting gobstoppers, but I _do_ recall you holding Aidan at bay before I gave him the bear-hug-of-death. I thought you couldn't work those Jedi mind tricks anymore.”

“I can't—I mean, I didn't _think_ I could,” Sam answers too quickly. He can tell by the way Dean's head's cocked that whatever he says, his brother probably won't take him at his word. Sam had hoped they'd worked through all the crap about him not being himself, or something else wearing his meatsuit, but apparently not.

“I'd've told you, man, honestly.”

Dean considers a moment, never taking his eyes from Sam's. His only response is a slight shrug.

Sam shifts on the lumpy mattress. “I mean, I haven't had a vision or levitated so much as a pen since we offed Azazel. C'mon, Dean, if I did have some Jedi mojo, don't you think I've used it by now? Like back in Monument?” Sam finds that he's holding his breath, like he's waiting for an expected punch to slam into his gut.

“Okay,” Dean says, picking at the faded comforter. “So how'd you do it?”

“Dunno, man. I just knew... well, _felt_ that Aidan was going to kill you. Us. I had to do something, and the next thing I know, I'm _doing it_ , though I don't know how or whether I could ever do it again.”

Dean snorts and stares at the hideous paisley wallpaper.

“I did save our asses.” Sam lays a hand on Dean's thigh. “Can't complain too much about that, right?” He flashes what he hopes is his most winning smile, but his brother's having none of it.

Dean nods, draining his beer. “At least your nose stopped bleeding.”

“Yeah.”

Sam honestly doesn't know how he'd managed to hold Aidan at bay, though it's pretty clear Dean's not satisfied with his statement of such. Just because Azazel was gone, why would it follow that his freaky powers would simply disappear? It wasn't some spell, after all, and it only made sense that something was still left in his blood, swimming around, percolating, possibly changing him. He didn't feel different, but if he were inexorably morphing into some kind of monster, would he realize it?

Even if he was turning into something else, it was probably too late to stop the process, let alone reverse it. But whatever might be happening, it'd come in handy today, and they'd certainly need to work every advantage they had in order to gank Lilith and save Dean.

“Well, at least you got some new underwear.”

“There was never any doubt about that, Sammy boy,” Dean replies smugly. “I was gonna get that stuff gratis right from the start. Just so happened Mullet Boy was a creepy-crawly.”

“Gross. You'd have let him fuck you for underwear and a cheap stereo?”

Dean waves a finger. “Not only for the merchandise, but also to make sure we avoided any local entanglements. Are you tryin' to say you're not willing to take one for the team?”

“I'll stick with my previous assessment,” Sam says, sticking out his tongue.

“Wassamatter, Sammy? Jealous because he wanted me and not you?”

“Ah, no, definitely not jealous. More like psychologically scarred.”

Dean laughs, yanking off his t-shirt and standing just long enough to shove off his denims before flopping back onto the bed. “No more than you are already, little bro.”

“Thanks,” Sam replies, emptying his own bottle of beer. He hops from the bed and shimmies out of his tracksuit pants.

Dean gestures to the ancient television hanging from the wall. “What'd the manager say when you told him about the busted TV?”

Sam hooks a thumb at the battle-scarred Zenith. “He agreed that it was busted.”

“That's it?

“Yep.”

“Dickhead.”

“You get what you pay for. At least there's plenty of hot water.”

Dean raises his bottle high. “So you got season five of the _The X-Files_ on the laptop?”

“Yep.” Sam flips open his computer and wakes it up.

“Ya know, we were lucky today. Kinda painless, actually.”

“For you,” Sam replies, rubbing his temple. “At least I didn't have to watch Aidan plow your ass.”

Dean folds his arms across his chest, shaking his head. “Oh, no, little brother. It would've been the other way around.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Bearwalker or not, our tough guy would've screamed like a ten year old at a surprise birthday party when I bent him over that desk.”

“So you're saying—”

“Yup. I pegged Aidan as a bottom right from the get go. When push came to shove, he'd have let me bone him.” Dean offers his empty bottle and Sam places it next to the other eleven on the dresser.

“Really, _really_ gross,” Sam answers, dragging his t-shirt over his head. He folds it carefully before laying it atop his tracksuit pants on the far end of the dresser. “Wanna know what I find most interesting about this whole, twisted affair?”

“I'm trembling with anticipation.”

Sam flips his brother off. “Here it is: despite what you said earlier today, not only do you seem to actually possess gaydar, but you've apparently honed your instincts to the point that you can determine preferred sexual positions.” Sam checks the salt lines at the door and window before dropping onto the bed.

“Man, you're hung up on labels, whether it's clothes _or_ people.” Dean scoots across the threadbare comforter to lean against a pile of pillows, both hands behind his head. “I know why you're pissed, though.”

“I'm not pissed, but this should be stunning, anyway.”

“You wanted to do more than just watch. Am I right?”

“Ahh, no.”

“So?”

“I guess I can't handle seeing anyone else get their hands on you.”

Dean raises both eyebrows. “Gettin' a little possessive in our old age, are we lil' bro?”

“Yeah, kinda like you are when it comes to me.”

“You're my brother,” Dean replies matter-of-factly.

“And?”

“And _what_?”

Sam shifts across the mattress so that he's closer to Dean. “God, why can't you just admit it, Dean?”

“What? That you were right about these boxer briefs? 'Cause they're super comfy and make my ass look hotter than ever.”

Sam growls out his response. “You know what I mean, jerkface.”

“Bitch,” Dean shoots back, eyeing Sam a long moment. “It really means that much to you, huh?”

“Yeah. Dunno why, but it does.” Sam slides next to his brother, his left hand scribing small circles across the expanse of Dean's chest.

“You know I hate this chick-flick stuff,” Dean sighs, scanning the darkened room as if searching for something. “There's only been one thing I've ever been good at my whole life, and that's you. I don't know how to do anything else, and honestly, I don't want to. There's _nothing_ more important than you, Sammy. You're all I got, and without you, there's no fucking point.” He wipes at his eyes a little too roughly. “I dunno what that makes me—makes _us_ , and there probably isn't a word, or label, for what we are. And you know what? I'm cool with it.” He gives up the tiniest of shrugs. “That probably isn't what you wanted to hear—”

Sam nuzzles a spot just behind Dean's right ear. “That's perfect, Dee, really,” he sighs, nipping and nibbling his way along Dean's jaw line.

“You've been real antsy lately,” Dean says, laying a calloused hand on Sam's inner thigh. “Just don't waste any more time worryin' over things that don't need worryin' over.” He gently tips Sam's chin up. “Got it, wavy gravy?”

“Yessir,” Sam answers with mock formality. He knows that's about as close as Dean's ever gonna come as far as a declaration of love is concerned, and it's totally fine. Dean says it in so many other ways that Sam probably couldn't count them all if he tried. “And you're right, I need to keep my mind on the game, on the hunts. No distractions.”

“That's my boy.” Dean flashes that crooked grin of his, and Sam's heart nearly skips a beat.

“It's just that we might not have a lot of time left if—”

“If your demon bitch can't figure out a way to get me outta my contract?”

“She can help,” Sam insists, not really believing it himself anymore, but unwilling to totally give up hope. “We'll get you out of it, Dean. Between us, Ruby, and Bobby, we'll figure out a way. We always do.”

Dean nods, running a hand through Sam's hair. “In the meantime, we might as well make the most of the here and now.” His hand glides down the expanse of Sam's back, his fingertips slipping under the waistband of Sam's Abercrombies. “If things go wrong, I wanna have as many good memories as possible to take downstairs.” He gives Sam's ass a firm squeeze.

“Shit, don't say that,” Sam murmurs, leaning in to claim Dean's lips as his own.

Dean responds in kind, his free hand clamping onto the back of Sam's neck.

Sam slides on top of his brother, opening his mouth enough to allow Dean's insistent tongue access. It's all he can do to keep their kiss going as Dean kneads his ass with abandon, all the while struggling to shove down Sam's undershorts. Sam hefts his hips up a little, and Dean succeeds is getting the Abercrombies down and over Sam's erection.

Sam breaks the kiss and rolls on his side, bringing up his knees to push off the underwear. With a kick, he sends them flying off into the shadows. He looks up at Dean, whose lips are barely swollen and pink from their kiss. Dean's expression's pretty predatory, his heavy-lidded gaze fixed on Sam's hard cock.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean rumbles, his right arm around Sam's shoulders while his left shoves at the waistband of his new boxer briefs.

Sam helps pull the briefs off, and they sail across the room to join his. 

Sam leans in, licking and suckling his way down the middle of Dean's chest, then across his stomach, stopping to jab at Dean's belly button with the tip of his tongue. He grabs the base of Dean's thick erection with one hand, pulling it toward him. Without preamble, he swallows Dean's cock whole, sucking hard before slowly working his way back up Dean’s length, barely grazing his bottom teeth along the sensitive skin as he goes.

Dean bucks erratically, one hand fisting the bedspread while the other rakes a path through Sam's hair.

Sam pauses a moment, swirling his tongue around the hyper-sensitive head of Dean's cock, eliciting a staccato series of gasps from Dean.

“Shit, Sammy!” Dean cries out, clutching a fistful of Sam's hair and holding on tight.

Sam bears down and swallows Dean once more, sucking his way up and then down again, steadily increasing his pace with each upstroke.

Dean pants out Sam's name, his hips moving in rhythm to Sam's ministrations.

Sam concentrates on maintaining his pattern, slowly ramping up his speed as Dean's murmurings turn to gibberish. He knows it won't be long now, so he gives his last upstroke some serious teeth, dragging them along the underside of Dean's cock.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , gonna go,” Dean whimpers before sucking in a deep breath.

Sam again grabs the base of Dean's hard on, firmly stroking as much of his brother's slick length as he can while sucking and laving the head of Dean's cock mercilessly.

Dean gasps some more and his entire body tenses as his orgasm claims him.

Sam tries to suck in some air as Dean's hot release pumps his mouth full. He manages to swallow most of it, but some of his brother's saltiness seeps from the corners of his mouth. He licks his lips and in turn the head of Dean's spent cock, sending a spasm through Dean's entire body.

“That's it, _that's it_!” Dean moans, jerking his hips enough to free his softening dick from Sam's mouth.

Sam slides up the mattress, smashing his lips to Dean's.

Dean eagerly accepts the kiss as Sam, still rock hard, slides on top of him.

Dean breaks the kiss to nuzzle at Sam's cheek. “You're fucking awesome, lil' bro,” Dean whispers, nibbling and kissing his way along Sam's stubbled jaw line.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, tilting his head just enough to allow Dean better access to his neck.

“Fuckin' A,” Dean breathes between kisses. He pauses partway down Sam's neck to take a tiny fold of skin between his teeth. He pulls and nibbles at it with increasing intensity.

Sam doesn't resist. He cups the back of Dean's neck, sucking in deep breaths. “Oh, fuck, Dean.”

Dean pulls and suckles harder and harder, and just when Sam thinks he can't take it any longer, Dean releases him with a loud _slurp_.

“There ya go,” Dean murmurs, gently kissing what will probably be one helluva bruise by morning. “Ya don't mind, do ya?”

“You know I don't,” Sam replies, kissing the top of Dean's forehead. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That was something else,” Dean declares, squirming a little to find a comfy position. “Not what I had in mind, but I'll never complain about a kick-ass blow job.”

“I hope not.” Sam leans across Dean to reach over the side of the bed. He finds a strap of his backpack and pulls it up and onto the bed. He roots around some before extracting a small black tube of lube.

“Whoa, someone's eager to be in the driver's seat tonight.” Dean grins crookedly.

“Damn straight,” Sam answers, shoving the backpack to the floor. “After what you put me through today, I reckon it's fair play.”

“You know I get all tingly when you talk like that.” Dean's right hand strays down to his re-fluffed cock.

“I'm gonna do more than make you tingle,” Sam growls, squeezing out a huge dollop of goop and slathering it all over his erection. He straddles Dean's thighs, using his goop-slick hand to coat Dean's dick.

“Oh shit,” Dean blurts out. “That's cold.”

“I'll warm ya up, bottom boy,” Sam rumbles, lowering himself onto Dean. “Want me to stop?”

“Fuck, no!” Dean slides both hands down Sam's torso. “Besides, I'm nothing if not flexible.” He massages Sam's ass with both hands, slumping down into the pillows. He lifts his knees and bows his legs until his calves touch his thighs.

“More like easy,” Sam murmurs, his tongue teasing the shell of Dean's ear.

“Whatever,” Dean replies, withdrawing one hand from Sam's backside to turn off the lamp on the nightstand. “Get to it, Poindexter.”

“As you wish.”

Sam crashes their lips together as the darkness surrounds them.

 

**_~~ fin ~~_ **

**Author's Note:**

> A complete description of Bearwalkers can be found in **_The Supernatural Book of Monsters, Spirits, Demons & Ghouls_** (2007) by Alex Irvine. I've taken a few liberties with the lore.


End file.
